"It's the Russian influence at Const-ant-i-nople, my lady, that might cause the war. What with Napol-e-on inclining toward military ventures for prest-ige, and the Czar interfering as always in everything, England will soon be drawn into the conflict. . ."
Richard closed his eyes, feeling ill. Apparently Peggy was determined to involve his mother in the foolish affairs of the world, whether she wanted to be involved or not.
"I hope all that war talk makes sense to you, my lady," she said, looking up at the door, "because I assure you it makes no sense to me."
From where Richard stood near the end of the corridor, he saw Peggy draw her cloak more tightly about her and turn the page of newsprint. "Let's find a happier item, my lady, shall we? Ah, here, the Queen and her Albert are at Osborne for a brief holiday. And here's a darling sketch of the little princess, my lady, quite a plump cherub, she is. How I wish that you could see it."
Suddenly she broke off, her head lifting regretfully to the door. "I'm ... so sorry, my lady," she said, her voice breaking.
The poor woman leaned forward, her hands pressed against the cold unresponding barrier, openly crying. "I can't bear the thought of you imprisoned like this, my lady," she sobbed. "Whatever you done, or didn't do, it's a loving God that looks down upon you. He wouldn't want you to do this for His sake."
Abruptly Richard stepped back. He didn't want to hear any more. There was nothing he could do about anything. If Peggy chose to talk with a locked door, that was her business.
As for himself, it hurt too much, even to watch from a distance, and sharply he turned and started running through the corridors. Out of the turmoil of a thousand contours gradually emerged the features of his mother as they had appeared to him before she'd done the damage.
Oh, dear Christ, how he missed her and wanted her, and he ran toward the chapel in sore need of refuge, sobbing like a child.
London, March 29,1854
Though usually punctual, this morning John slipped behind his desk in the outer office of Peto, Betts, and Brassey one hour late and mildly hung over.
At the far end of the high-ceilinged room he saw the other clerks huddled about Andrew's desk in close examination of something.
Well, there was a break. Perhaps no one had noticed his late arrival. Weary at eight-thirty in the morning and breathless from his high-speed sprint up three flights of stairs, he opened his portfolio to a scattering of papers, the report which Brassey had assigned him to make over a month ago: Laissez-Faire and the Development of British Industry.
He would never survive this day. Still he scattered the papers about, determined at least to give the appearance of working. At the end of the long room, Andrew's voice rose above the others in a single exclamation. "What sport it would be. . ."
Slowly John looked up. He squinted down the length of the dimly lit room. Quickly he glanced behind toward Mr. Brasse/s closed door. The cat was either busy or away. Again he tried to overhear the specifics of the conversation coming from the opposite end of the room. But he could hear nothing clearly, and the sight of those "fellow prisoners" simply served to deepen his depression, and with newly sinking spirits he glanced about at the cold gray office which once, or so he'd hoped, would be the door to his future.
Door to anonymity, more likely, he brooded. He should have followed his instincts months ago and departed for India. Even now
the only respite he had from this mind-dulling work was an occasional excursion to the docks, where he'd watch the giant sailing ships arrive, the Indian porters grinning down at him as though trying to lure him on board.
But no. He'd decided that Willmot's contact with Thomas Bras-sey would be more promising. Promising! For fourteen months he had been "one of ten" clerks, filing letters, copying graphs, running witless errands that a child might do as well. Oh, the pay was adequate, no more. It enabled him to pay Jack Willmot a few shillings a week for sharing his flat, though each time John paid him, Willmot insisted it wasn't necessary. And it enabled him as well to slip five shillings a week into old Mrs. Pendar's apron pocket, a generous payment for her housekeeping duties and for the hot meals she delivered to their second-floor flat. As for the rest of his salary, it was sufficient to cover his nightly drinking.
Slowly he pushed back in his chair, his head tilted upward. He must watch himself this morning. He knew the price he always paid for dissipation. Normally in the mind-numbing activities of the day, and the feverish activity of the night, he could successfully hold memory at bay. But in certain transitional periods, like now. . .
Eden.
One word, capable of undoing him, and he leaned forward across the desk, cradling his head in his hands.
Her.
There was another word, one her out of a world of hers. Was she still alive?
Beneath his hands, he stared, eyes blurred, at the column of figures which Mr. Brassey had given him the night before. They were to be tabulated, copied in triplicate, the papers on Mr. Brasse/s desk first thing this morning.
"John! There you are!"
The voice was eager and warm and belonged to Andrew Rhoades. Grateful for the reprieve, John looked up, aware that he'd been discovered. The lot of them, headed by Andrew, were now moving toward him, their faces, to the man, alive with some new enthusiasm.
And to the man, John had ignored them for over fourteen months for the ciphers that they were, all except Andrew, and there was a special bond, or more accurately, a two-edged knife which cut both ways, simultaneously attracting John, then repelling him, for at their introduction and upon hearing the name of Eden, Andrew had gaped, claiming surely it wasn't possible that John Murrey Eden was
the relation of Edward Eden, the man in whose Ragged Schools Andrew had grown up and received his early education.
But of course it had been possible and true, and the foundation for the bond between the two young men had been laid. When John's loneliness threatened to unhinge him, he could always count on Andrew's company for a good night's debauchery.
Now they were upon him, Andrew still in the lead, waving a large cardboard poster of some sort.
"How long have you been sitting here with your head between your shoulders?" Andrew grinned. "When all the time I hold the key to your future."
John looked up at the poster. "It doesn't resemble a key." He smiled, trying to send the ghosts away and rise to the optimism of the moment.
"Oh, but it is," Andrew responded with mock sternness. "While you were dallying this morning, the rest of us have decided to give a fortnight's notice and join up."
This was greeted with a rustle of approval from the men behind him, though John still hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking about and said as much. "Join up what?"
"My lord, man," Andrew exclaimed, "haven't you heard? Every news-hawker in London has been screaming it."
"Screaming what?"
"War!" Andrew grinned. "That's all. Just war."
As the others laughed at his sarcasm, John sat up, interested. "With whom?" he asked, puzzled that he'd missed so important an announcement.
"Russia," one man said with assurance from the back of the group.
"No," another disagreed. "Turkey. The Times said it clear as day."
"You're both wrong," exclaimed a third. "The way I heard it, it's Moldavia."
Suddenly Andrew raised a hand into the air. "If the dunces will cease talking, I will inform the man—"
"Please do," John murmured, amused by the prospect of war without a clear-cut adversary.
With a sense of melodrama Andrew took the floor, his sandy-colored hair and flushed complexion the only color in the drab room. "It's the Czar all right." He nodded, confirming the first man's guess of Russia. "He wants Constantinople, and all the rest of Europe, according to what I hear." He peered closely at John, as though
amazed by his lack of knowledge. "You've . . . heard nothing?" he repeated.
Rather proud of his ignorance in such a foolish matter, John shook his
head. "Nothing."
"My God, it's filled the newsprint for the last six weeks."
"Then it's true, is it?" John asked, respecting his friend's somber demeanor. "Truly war?"
"Truly war." Andrew nodded. "Last night France and Britain agreed on armed intervention in support of Turkey."
"Against. . . Russia?" John faltered, unable to make sense out of the confused allegiances.
Andrew nodded.
"And where will this . . . war be staged?" he asked, still unable to take any of it too seriously.
"The Crimea, most likely, midpoint between Russia and Turkey."
"Sounds cold," John said.
"Most likely it will be," Andrew agreed. "But look," and at last he forced the poster down onto John's desk. "Look at the pay listed. Great God, it's more than Brassey pays in a—"
John studied the poster, designed for purposes of recruitment. Fifteen shillings for a cavalry recruit and four pounds for an infantryman, with monthly pay at seven and six pounds respectively. Clearly the government needed soldiers and needed them in a hurry.
"What do you think?" Andrew asked.
John hesitated a moment. "I thought you wanted to study law."
"I do," Andrew exclaimed, "but how can I study anything on what Brassey pays?" He again pointed to the poster. "With that salary, I can save. I can serve my country and return with a sizable purse, enough to pursue a career. Look again!"
John eyed the poster and the listed sums. "It's a lot of money, but not enough to get blown to bits." His negative comment had a dire effect on the enthusiasm of the potential soldiers.
Someone suggested coldly, "Not a very patriotic bloke, are you?"
"For such a senseless conflict, no."
"How do you know it's senseless? The Czar has already walked over two countries—"
"The Czar can walk where he pleases," John replied.
"What if he walks to England?" someone protested hotly. "What will you do then?"
John grinned. "If he walks to England, I'd like a ringside seat for his channel crossing."
As muttering broke out around him, he saw Andrew looking down on him, the disappointment clear on his face. "I . . . thought you'd be excited."
"I am, for you, if that's what you want."
"You're as sick of this place as I am," Andrew protested, leaning over the desk. "I know. You've told me so."
"I am," John agreed, "but not so sick that I'm willing to play target for a bunch of cossacks."
Suddenly Andrew stood erect, the determination clear on his face. "Well, I've tallied my last column of figures, transcribed my last letter, and filed my last graph. In two weeks I'll be a soldier in Her Majesty's Service."
At the conclusion of this brief speech, the others broke into a cheer. Clearly Andrew had spoken for the lot of them.
"Then I wish you well." John smiled, extending his hand to his friend.
As Andrew took it, the others began to drift back to their desks, resigned to at least a few more days of tedium before they entered the great adventure of war.
"Are you sure you won't come with us?" Andrew asked. "We'd make a grand team. The Czar would know he'd tangled with someone when we finished with him."
"I'm sorry," John murmured. "I have no desire to involve myself in the Czar's affairs."
"He'll involve us all before it's over."
"Not me, he won't." John smiled. "Now if you'll excuse me, Andrew, since I'm not moving on to more gainful employment in Her Majesty's Service, I'd better turn to my work here. I assume that Brassey is lurking about someplace . . ."
"In his office," Andrew muttered. "He's been closeted there with several gentlemen since early this morning."
John glanced toward the door which led to the inner sanctum, the simple chambers where decisions were made which affected the lives of thousands: where to build a railway, whose farmlands to disrupt, what tariff to charge that would inevitably add new weight to Midas' wealth. With longing John continued to stare at the closed door, wishing that he were seated in there instead of out here.
WTien he looked back, with an invitation to Andrew to join him for dinner—burned bridges must be mended—he discovered that Andrew had returned to his desk, a few of the clerks still in close conference with him, all of them excited over their new futures.
Alone, from his end of the room John watched them, momentarily regretting his decision not to join them. Why was it that every decision he'd ever made in his life always left him in a state of aloneness? As he saw several of them look up in his direction, he lowered his head over the scattered papers and again gave the impression of industry.
His eyes fell on the words Laissez-Faire and the Development . . . , the study which Brassey had ordered on government regulations since 1793. With interest he read the report, written in his own hand over the last few weeks, a new awareness beginning to move over him. He had learned something in this grim office.
Suddenly a new idea occurred to him, the most dazzling of the morning. One of ten? No longer. Not with nine going off to fight Her Majesty's war. For a while at least, until Brassey could replenish his work force, John would be one of one.
Buoyed by hope that things might be different, he carefully placed the report on the desk and drew forth clean pages. It must be re-copied, must appear the epitome of accuracy and neatness to Brassey, who would look upon it and certainly view its author in a different light.
Through the entire day he worked, and when at last he looked up, he saw night outside the high window and the office empty, the other clerks, including Andrew, long since gone off to drink to the future and the glories of war. Over his shoulder he glanced toward Brassey's door, the light still visible through the crack. Good! By John's estimate they were here alone. Difficult for one man to ignore the other when both were alone.
With care he copied the final paragraph of the lengthy report. Again he glanced over his shoulder at the door, as though it had spoken to him. On his desk the solitary lamp flickered low, casting his own shadow in massive proportions on the high wall. For a moment he watched, fascinated by the magnification, a pleasant respite from the tedium of the day's work. So engrossed was he in himself grown larger than life that at first he failed to notice the door open, or the man standing on the threshold, his spectacles in his hand, coat off.
"Shadow play?" the voice inquired.
John stood immediately. Behind him on the desk, he felt of the carefully stacked edges of his report.
Brassey took a step farther out of the door, squinting at John from across the room. "And you are . . . ?"
"Eden, sir," John replied, mildly hurt that after all this time in the great man's employ, he still was a nonentity.
"Ah, yes." Brassey nodded. "You are Willmofs young friend, of course."
Willmofs young friend! Damn! What a way to be remembered. Just as he was on the verge of stepping forward with his report, Brassey inquired further, "Where is Willmot? I haven't seen him about lately. I could have used his expertise today."
"He's in Brighton, sir. An aunt is ailing."
"Of course." Brassey nodded. "Now I remember." For a moment he appeared to look vaguely about the floor.
John had never seen the man so addled-appearing.
"Well," Brassey said, and turned away as though he were about to take refuge in his office.
Quickly John stepped forward, determined that when they met again, the man would remember him. "Mr. Brassey . . ." he called out.
Slowly Brassey looked back, still holding his spectacles in his hand. But before John had a chance to speak, Brassey apparently had a question of his own. "Why are you still here, Eden?" he asked. "I thought I'd lost all my clerks today to Her Majesty's Service."
"Not me, sir."
"Why not you?"
"War holds little appeal."
As though stirred to interest in spite of his fatigue, Brassey appeared to look more closely at John. "Then am I to understand that you'll be remaining in my e
mploy?"
"If you'll have me, sir."
Brassey laughed. "If I'll have you. You may find yourself doing the work of ten men, at least for a while."
"I'll do my best, sir."
Again Brassey looked at him, as though seeing him in a new light. "I thought all young men were attracted to war."
"Not I."
"Why?"
John smiled, pleased by their easy give-and-take. "I have no quarrel with the Czar, sir."
"But apparently your country does."
"And there will be plenty of soldiers to fight for her," he added, motioning to the nine empty desks.
"But not you?"
"No, sir. With the departure of the others, you are merely left short-handed. If I had gone as well, you'd be left empty-handed."
For a moment they looked at each other across the empty desks. John tried to read the expression on Brassey's face, but could not. However, his next question was a sharp one. "You're not a coward, are you, Eden?"
Taken aback, John could not immediately reply. "I've never been tested, sir," he admitted, "but I hope not."
"Well," Brassey said finally on a deep expulsion of air, "I appreciate your . . . loyalty, and wish that I could assure you of a safe harbor here. But I can't. Even if you stay with me, I fear that sooner or later, all of us will get a close-hand look at the Czar."
"I. . . don't understand, sir."
"Study your maps, Eden," Brassey called back, turning into his office. "From where our troops will be forced to land to where the fighting will take place, you'll see miles of virgin territory. Men and materials will have to be moved across it at the greatest possible speed."
John was following after the trailing voice now. "I still don't understand, sir. Surely the army can take care of—"
With his hand on the doorknob, Brassey turned back. "The army does well to wipe its nose on a rainy day. No! Before it's over, they'll need us practical men. So be warned. Stay with me and you'll end up in the frozen mud of the Crimea anyway."
Baffled, the report still in his hand, John tried to halt the retreating man.
"Later, Eden," Brassey said sharply. "Go home for now. As I said, I appreciate your. . .loyalty."
The Eden passion Page 31
